


The Lips of Revolutionaries

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:39:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire wants to kiss Enjolras.  Enjolras wants to do anything but kiss Grantaire.  Set in some bizarre alternate reality in which Enjolras has a sex drive even during the rebellion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lips of Revolutionaries

**Author's Note:**

> So let me get this out of the way: I've never published a fanfic before. I've never written anything remotely explicit before. So this is probably disgustingly cheesy/cliché, but I recently watched the 10th and 25th anniversary shows and just had to get this out of my system. I intended to write a little drabble and pretty soon I had 6k words oops.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Never read the book (sob don't kill me i've read like 43298 excepts from it though) so there's a chance our boys might be a little OOC. Or really OOC (its hard to make e/r established relationship not a little ooc). I did the proofreading, which is about as effective as a stump doing the proofreading, so I apologize in advance for any stupid errors. Any and all critique is encouraged.~~
> 
>  
> 
> **BIG ASS EDIT HELLO FRIENDS READ ME//** This was my first fic for this paring (hell it was my first fic, period) and though it has gotten a lot of positive feedback, I've been considering taking it down. I feel like it's really sloppy and rather out of character sometimes, and I really regret that this has been some people's introduction to this paring as a whole. I'm still really appreciative of all of the praise this has received and I'm not going to delete it, but I personally don't consider it to be a very good representation of e/r and I urge you to read up on other fics that handle their dynamic much better. Thanks!

This is the third time Grantaire finds himself settled between Enjolras's thighs. He glances down at his disheveled partner and shudders, closing his eyes at the sight. His fearless leader looks no less fierce or determined when on his back underneath another man.

He also looks no less like a stupid, beautiful, bastard.

Grantaire feels a hand on the side of his face, trailing higher until it's tugging on his hair. He opens his eyes and peeks down at Enjolras. His lips are all red and bitten and terribly inviting. But it isn't Grantaire who made them that way, it is Enjolras's own teeth. Because Grantaire isn't allowed to kiss.

Well. It's not so much that he isn't _allowed_. He had tried their first time, and kept persisting during round two. Every time Enjolras simply turned his head, or pushed Grantaire away with a grunt and a shove, muttering something about drunks. Grantaire thought it had something to do with the brandy on his breath, maybe his companion found the scent and taste unappealing. His theory was proven wrong when he tried to kiss other places, his forehead, his knuckles, his stomach. Enjolras would swat at him and call him names.

So kisses are off-limits.

Grantaire is allowed to do other things, though. He is allowed to touch wherever he wants. So he does. 

He twists his fingers in Enjolras's tangled hair. He rakes his blunt fingernails down Enjolras's sides. He entwines their legs and ruts against Enjolras's hip.

He presses a thumb to Enjolras's lips. For a second, the man is so lost in pleasure that his tongue darts out to lick a short line across the pad. Then, as if he realized what he had done, Enjolras snaps his jaws shut and rolls his head back in bliss, whispering _yes, yes_  and arching his back.

Grantaire is taken with a sudden rush of lust. He throws a hand out to rest against Enjolras's forehead, stroking his brow softly and anchoring them both as he grinds his hips down harder and moans loudly. He buries his face in the neck bared before him, careful to keep his mouth closed, and nuzzles into the stubble-roughened skin. He's going to have beard burn on his _forehead_ after this, but he can't bring himself to give a damn.

Enjolras makes a high noise in the back of his throat and jerks his hips, shifting up onto his elbows for better leverage. Grantaire takes his hand off of Enjolras's forehead and wraps his arm around his friend's middle, pulling him up until the are pressed flat against each other.

Grantaire's cock couldn't be happier. He has Enjolras, in all his golden glory, practically writhing on his lap. Every rough groan and shuddering breath fires heat through Grantaire's body, like a shot from a rifle but so, _so_ good. They rut together like animals, but Enjolras manages to look anything but lewd. Grantaire feels almost criminal, like he's defiling an angel. No whore who ever warmed his bed looked so pure and blissful as Enjolras does now. 

At least most of those whores let him kiss them, though.

Grantaire groans in frustration and digs his fingernails into the meat of Enjolras's thigh. Their foreheads knock together and he glares down at those lips like they've personally offended him. Damn Enjolras and damn his bizarre sexual decisions.

Enjolras must have noticed Grantaire's gaze, because he brings up a hand and clamps it over the drunkard's mouth. His strong fingers dig uncomfortably into the bone of Grantaire's jaw and his little finger knocks awkwardly against Grantaire's nose as they squirm against each other, but palm is flush against lips. It's the closest thing to a kiss he's allowed Grantaire to give, and Grantaire gives enthusiastically. He bites at the muscle just below Enjolras's thumb and licks at the dip in the middle of his hand. Enjolras works up a truly commendable glare for someone who looks blissed out of their mind, but Grantaire isn't deterred in the least.

He's so undeterred, in fact, that he feels a telltale tug in his lower belly. It pulls tighter when Enjolras gasps and starts rolling his hips erratically, signaling his near release. Grantaire gets an idea in his head, an idea that might put him on the pointy end of a bayonet, but he decides to roll with it.

He surges forward against Enjolras's hand, pushing it back against Enjolras's lips. Their noses brush together at this distance. It's a mimicry of a real kiss, but it's so close that it's all Grantaire needs. He screws his eyes shut and thrusts down until he goes stock still, tensing from his toes to his neck, and spills all over Enjolras's pale stomach.  He breathes hard against the hand between them and nearly bites down on it to keep from crying out.

Enjolras jerks his head away with a gasp and proceeds to _whimper_. Grantaire takes him in his hand and jerks him off with a crudeness he doesn't deserve. _You deserve soft hands and soft lips_ , he thinks, _you deserve to be worshiped by someone beautiful and kind, not a bitter drunk like-_

His train of thought is interrupted when Enjolras gives a jagged cry and comes all over his hand. Unlike Grantaire, he is restless through his orgasm. His body jerks and writhes, like he's being swept away by pleasure and only his fingers digging into Grantaire's shoulders are keeping him inside his body. He makes noises, too. These little aborted sobs that sound so rough and broken in a throat that is regularly abused by passionate cries of freedom.

“It's _good_ , so good, _oh_ Grantaire, it's-”

It's beautiful.

Afterwards, when they've cleaned up a bit, Enjolras is settled with his back leaning on the headboard and papers all over his lap. Grantaire lays splayed on his stomach across the bed, with his head near Enjolras's thigh. Strong fingers card their way through his hair in a gesture that feels far too domestic coming from a man who wont even accept chaste kisses.

Grantaire noses the bare thigh in front of him and gives it a quick peck. The fingers in his hair tighten and Enjolras groans in annoyance. Grantaire suddenly grows cross and shoves himself up and off the bed.

Enjolras glances up at him. “Where are you going?”

“Leaving,” Grantaire mutters in reply, “Need a drink or two. Might as well get pissed.”

“No!” Enjolras snaps.

Grantaire turns around to look at him. The man is kneeling on the bed, crushing some poor documents under his knees. He looks at Grantaire with eyes that both plead and warn.

“Stay,” He says.

“Why should I, when I'm clearly not welcome?” Grantaire is suddenly functioning at the mental age of ten. Maturity was never his strong suit.

“God's sake, Grantaire, it's early in the morning,” Enjolras says. “The sun will rise in a few hours, no fool should be drinking himself unconscious at this hour.”

Grantaire continues to look like an insolent child.

Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“You'll have a warm place to sleep, and you might not wake up horribly hung over for once in your life,”  he says.  "Besides, I prefer you sober.  You're less likely to be a nuisance."

Grantaire regards him sullenly for a moment and says, “I will stay if you do something for me.”

“And what would that be?” Enjolras asks, suspicion darkening his tone.

Grantaire doesn't hesitate. “Kiss me.”

Silence reigns. Grantaire fears he has not escaped a bayonetting just yet.

Enjolras looks put off for a moment. his face drawing tight in irritation. Grantaire almost turns around and walks off without a word when Enjolras sighs dramatically and offers his hand.

Grantaire approaches it like he would a cornered beast. When he slots their palms together, Enjolras pulls his hand in close and presses his lips to the bony knuckles. They stay like that longer than Grantaire would have expected before Enjolras slowly pulls away and glances up at his companion through his lashes. He looks striking and handsome, even from his submissive position, and Grantaire is stuck between envy at the sight of such gorgeous strength and utter admiration for it.

So he admits defeat and crawls onto the bed. The papers are swept away and Grantaire curls around Enjolras, with his head resting in the space between a warm neck and strong shoulders. Enjolras whispers words of revolution into his hair. Grantaire whispers words of foolishness back. It's comfortable and warm and so much more than Grantaire has ever had, or deserved.

- 

_Chapped lips rasp against rough skin, sucking bruises and kissing them better, teeth scraping along neck tendons, over a collar bone, biting lips, kissing the tip of each finger and sucking them into a warm mouth, tongues fighting and flitting against each other, kisses on hipbones, kisses on cocks-_

“Urghh.”

Grantaire wakes slowly and rises his head from its hiding place in a rough bed sheet. He notices a distinct lack of a certain student next to him. When he groggily looks to the window, he notices soft light streaming in. The sun is ready to rise.

“You sleep like the dead,” a voice tells him. When he finally figures out which way is up, he rolls over onto his back and looks around the room. Enjolras sits at a small table in the corner, scribbling furiously. A candle burns, enveloping Enjolras and much of the room in a soft orange glow. Heavenly.

“Don't worry,” Enjolras says, “You're in my room, not asleep in a gutter somewhere.”

He looks up and pointedly adds, “You're welcome, by the way.”

Grantaire just flings an arm over his eyes and slowly kicks the sheet away. Thats when he notices a little problem has presented itself down south. He's half hard against his thigh, and who is he to waste such an opportunity?

So Grantaire runs a hand down his chest and belly, then grasps his erection. Enjolras scoffs from his corner and mutters, “Have you no shame?”

Grantaire just grins and blows Enjolras a kiss, much to Enjolras's chagrin.

He strokes himself roughly and quickly, playing up his groans and sighs for his one-man audience. Enjolras doesn't seem to be affected in the least, what with France being his only love and all that. Still, Grantaire presents himself as obnoxiously wanton. He lacks the coordination and the focus to do much more than writhe and moan, but he rolls his hips and curls his toes in a way that screams, _Anybody out there? I could use a hand!_

But Enjolras ignores him and Grantaire finishes with a rather disappointing orgasm. He wipes his fingers on the sheets and Enjolras whines at him.

“Grantaire, would you please stop soiling my linens?” He's got circles under his eyes that the candle light exaggerates, yet he still looks grand and otherworldly.

Grantaire contemplates blowing another kiss. Instead he simply says, “Come back to bed, Apollo. Even gods need their rest.”

Enjolras might have replied, but Grantaire finds the world is growing fuzzy. Before long he has fallen back into sleep.

Dreamless, this time.

-

Grantaire wakes up when he starts having trouble breathing. It takes him two minutes and some really pathetic flailing to realize he'd been sleeping with his face stuffed in the crevice between a body and a bed. The strong arm curled on top of his head wasn't making things any easier, either.

Grantaire slowly slips of the bed as to not disturb his friend. Enjolras looks at peace for once, his face slackened with sleep. He is clearly exhausted, not even Grantaire's gracelessness could stir him from sleep. His mouth quirks slightly and he grumbles a bit. Grantaire imagines he's probably dreaming about freedom and glory for the people of France or something.

Turning away, Grantaire gropes around the room for his clothing. He pulls on his trousers and glances back at Enjolras. Before he can stop himself, he creeps up to the bed, suddenly conscious of every noise he makes. He leans over Enjolras's sleeping body and presses one very gentle kiss to the spot where his eyelid and brow bone meet.

And then Grantaire scampers away, giggling like a mischievous child.

-

That afternoon, Grantaire walks into the bustling café. Unrest is in the blood of the people of France, and it has turned the atmosphere of the streets tense. Whispers of revolution pass the lips of Grantaire's friends. Apparently someone important is on the verge of death and now everyone's in a tizzy. Grantaire might care more if the absinthe in front of him wasn't so appealing.

He gets slightly drunk and begs Enjolras to give him work and a purpose, but Enjolras just waves him off.  In fact, most of their public interactions involve Enjolras just waving him off.  Grantaire would have felt hurt if he wasn't horribly plastered. Besides, Enjolras usually doesn't kick him out of the Café Musain for being a nuisance, so Grantaire is okay with it.

Today however, he _is_ annoying enough to be kicked out. He feels bitter and bored, so his first instinct is to seek out the services of a lovely lady. Unfortunately, Grantaire finds the entire encounter rather underwhelming. It doesn't make sense.  The girl is beautiful and soft and gave lavish kisses, yet Grantaire finds himself longing for the strength and honor and beauty he has only ever found in Enjolras.

That thought makes his gut twist and his head pound. He is less than dirt to Enjolras, just a willing body to warm his bed.  He should not long for someone who detests him so much.

He wanders the streets to clear his head, but winds up muddling it with wine.  Enjolras will not leave his thoughts.

He stumbles into the bastard's apartment later that night and interrupts a heated conversation between Enjolras and Marius. They look up at him and Marius asks if he's heard the news about General Lamarque's illness. Grantaire doesn't answer, he just glares daggers through Enjolras.

Enjolras sighs and says, “Marius, give us a moment.”

Grantaire finds himself being yanked by the front of his shirt and thrown into a chair in another room. Enjolras's words are clipped and angry as he jostles Grantaire around and asks, “What the hell are you doing here? I told you not to bother me today.”

Grantaire keeps silently fuming. Enjolras leans in to smell his breath and draws back suddenly.

“You smell like a perfumed harlot,” he says with disgust.

Grantaire smiles bitterly at that. “Occasionally even I have enough francs to pay a beautiful woman to wet my cock-”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras growls through his teeth. It's a warning.

“What?” Grantaire asks with mock innocence. He smiles a smile that is closer to a grimace and says, “Ah, I forgot. Apollo doesn't need whores or silly young girls to lie on their back for him when he can just get a hopeless drunk to pretend to be his love-”

Grantaire probably would have continued if Enjolras hadn't stricken him across the face. No doubt Marius heard the sharp slap ringing through the apartment. Grantaire nearly tumbles from his chair from the force of the assault.  Or perhaps he's just more drunk than he thought.

Enjolras's eyes are glued to the floor when he barks, “Get out!” and Grantaire gladly follows instruction for once.

-

Grantaire gets bolder after the incident with the whore. Something about Enjolras's rage excites him. When Enjolras is angry, he focuses on Grantaire with an intensity that the drunkard is not used to. He craves the attention, so he makes a personal quest out of irritating Enjolras.

Mostly with kisses, of course.

He steals small kisses in private, on the top of Enjolras's head or on Enjolras's strong cheekbones. They're always closed-mouthed and chaste, yet they annoy Enjolras to no end. Sometimes he just flicks at Grantaire and chastises him as he would a child. Other times he grows irate and shoves at Grantaire's shoulders.

But Grantaire presses on, because Grantaire is a pest.

Enjolras doesn't seem to do much to dissuade Grantaire, other than complaining. He never explicitly tells Grantaire to cut it out with the kissing, so Grantaire persists.

In fact, Grantaire finds Enjolras is almost _teasing_ him about it. When he is in good spirits (and not telling Grantaire to _please go away, we have work to do that is not befitting for someone who cannot see straight),_ Enjolras will suck lightly on the end of his quill pen or rest with his index finger between his teeth, and then shoot these occasional deliberate glances at Grantaire. He did this in _public_ , in the Musain, in front of Marius and Courfeyrac and _everyone_.

Perhaps Grantaire is just paranoid. Still, Enjolras isn't stupid. You don't look at someone in public like you want to bend them over a table. It is _indecent_.

_Maybe this is revenge,_ Grantaire thinks, and downs his drink.

-

A day or two later, Grantaire staggers into Enjolras's apartment completely sloshed. His bloodshot eyes lead him in zigzags as he teeters and totters though the small space, knocking some things over and nearly tripping to his death twice. He's also singing, loudly.

He's just getting to the good part about the captain's daughter when he trips through the right doorway and sees Enjolras sitting at his lone table, writing again. Grantaire advances toward the man and wraps his arms around the broad shoulders in front of him.

“You smell like death,” Enjolras remarks.

Grantaire just chortles unattractively and buries his face in the back of Enjolras's neck.

Enjolras groans in exasperation and says, “Go to bed, you oaf.”

“Too delightfully buzzed for sleep, m'dear,” Grantaire says, and bites Enjolras's ear.

Which in hindsight might not have been very wise. Enjolras makes an attempt to elbow him through the chair and grunts, “Get off of me, you drunken brute!”

Grantaire just laughs again, pushes back from the chair, hits the wall and sinks to the ground. All without breaking anything! He smiles drunkenly at nothing in particular before remembering he was here to bother Enjolras. He rummages around on the floor until he finds some balled up paper and throws it at Enjolras's head. _Pay attention to me._

Another unfortunate decision. Grantaire's life seems to be turning into a disjointed stream of unfortunate decisions. The chair scrapes hard against the wooden floor and the next thing Grantaire knows, he's being shoved up against a wall. The wood digs uncomfortably into his back and Enjolras is shouting something, but Grantaire's focus has been stolen by the lips suddenly so close to his own. He starts moving his face closer, but Enjolras shakes him violently.

“Are you paying any attention to a word I have said?”

Grantaire looks puzzled for a moment before the words pierce through the fog surrounding his brain. “Nooo, actually. I was going to kiss you.”

And then Enjolras slaps him for the second time this week.

It's a pretty manly slap.

“Do you exist for any purpose other than to drink yourself stupid and molest me when I'm in the middle of important business?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire grins at him. The alcohol in his blood dulls the pain of the slap a bit.

“You work too hard, fearless leader,” he says, mocking, “You will work yourself to death before the government gets the chance to strike you down.”

Enjolras is about to open his mouth to retort, but Grantaire grabs at his ass and slides a thigh between his legs. Something in Enjolras's head malfunctions a little. With no gentleness, he yanks Grantaire by the cravat and _throws_ him down across the bed. He straddles Grantaire's hips and holds the drunk down by the throat as he works at loosening his own cravat.

Grantaire fucking _melts_ and gladly takes it.

Because he would take anything from this man, who often floats between extremes of fleeting affection and lasting hatred for Grantaire. He wants it all from Enjolras, the almost-love as well as the cruelty. He desires nothing more than to be validated by a person who probably does not even consider him a friend, because he is backwards and all wrong and _so_ fucked in the head. Enjolras makes him feel human in some perplexing way. He can't make Grantaire care for the revolution, or get Grantaire to quit drinking, but his presence alone is enough to make Grantaire feel right enough to exist in the world.

Grantaire lives for that hand around his throat.

So he closes his eyes and lets Enjolras do whatever he pleases.

First order of business seems to be destroying Grantaire shirt. Enjolras sits with his full weight bearing down on the other man, head raised with the pride that never seems to desert him. He stares at Grantaire looking half aroused and half livid, and terribly condescending, as he aggressively pulls the front of the drunk's shirt open. Grantaire tries to push up onto his elbows to level the playing field, but he's just shoved back down.

Enjolras is flat out manhandling Grantaire at this point, wrenching away clothing that sluggish drunk hands have difficulty with. The roughness of it all makes Grantaire's cock very, very happy. The way Enjolras grinds his (unfortunately clothed) ass down against Grantaire's (also clothed) lap might have something to do with it, too.

“Skin, skin...” Grantaire says stupidly, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Enjolras's trousers. Enjolras grabs his hands and pins them against the bed on either side of his head. He's leaning down now, so their eyes are level.

Of course, Grantaire's first instinct is to try to kiss Enjolras, but he pulls back out of reach.

“Why won't you kiss me?” Grantaire finally asks.

“Because your breath stinks of brandy,” Enjolras says, like it's obvious.

“No, no,” Grantaire is getting frustrated again. “Why don't you _ever_ kiss me? Even whores will kiss me.”

Enjolras looks affronted. “Whores get paid.”

Grantaire is distracted for a moment by the way Enjolras is rotating his hips. He gasps, and says, “So if I paid you, you would kiss me?”

“I'm no whore, Grantaire.”

“A kiss from you would be worth far more than I could ever pay,” Grantaire says, and it sounds like a confession.

Enjolras's breath falters for a moment. Grantaire wrestles his hands free and brings them to his partner's thighs, up to his hips, down the back of his pants to paw at his ass.

Enjolras groans and falls forward to mummer in Grantaire's ear, “I do not love you.”

“I know,” Grantaire replies. Why would someone as grand and beautiful as Enjolras ever love a downbeat drunkard?

“I have more important things to love,” Enjolras says, and then adds, “And I do not want you to love _me_.”

_Too late_ , Grantaire thinks. He swallows a swell of bitterness that rises to the back of his throat and instead slurs, “Cynics don't believe in love, you stupid bastard,” with no real heat behind the words.

Enjolras raises his head and tightens his thighs around Grantaire's hips. Grantaire tries to keep thrusting up against the resistance, but drink and lust are really starting to mess with his motor functions. Enjolras is looking straight at him with incredulity and indignation etched into his features. He whispers something too quiet to hear, and Grantaire has all of five seconds to be annoyed before his pants and boots are being yanked off.

Okay then.

Grantaire is flipped onto his stomach and pulled up onto all fours. For a second, his body is alight with electric anticipation. Of course Enjolras isn't going to fuck him, but the idea thrills him to the bone.

Instead Enjolras slots behind him, thrusting between the space in his thighs. Grantaire's gasps at the foreign feeling and ruts back against him. Enjolras wraps an arm around his front and grabs him at his neck again, pulling him up until they are chest to back. With his other hand, he scratches down Grantaire's stomach with dull fingernails before taking his length in hand.

Grantaire has no fucking clue what to do with his hands. One reaches out to take hold of the headboard, the other reaches behind him for Enjolras. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Grantaire registers the closed mouth that is glued firmly to the back of his shoulder. He doesn't become fully aware of it until it opens and _bites down_.

He can't comprehend the flurry of sensations gripping his body. Neither can his dick apparently, because he finds himself suddenly coming all over the headboard. The hand around his neck tightens a fraction and Enjolras starts sucking and kissing all along the back of Grantaire's neck. And Grantaire goes a little bit wild in his arms, cursing every god he can think of. Kisses shouldn't feel like this, they shouldn't make him feel like he's going to go mad with pleasure. Maybe it was all just a scheme on Enjolras's part, hold out on the kisses so that when they're finally allowed, they're mind blowing. Grantaire can't imagine how it will feel to finally kiss his lips.

Grantaire wonders if maybe Enjolras really _is_ an angel, if such a thing exists.

The two of them wind up heaped on the bed in a awkward pile of limbs. Evidence of Enjolras's release is drying uncomfortably all over the back of Grantaire's thighs. He doesn't mind. He couldn't be happier.

Enjolras cleans them up a bit, because Grantaire's bones seem to have morphed into rubber.

“I should write some more,” Enjolras says, though the end turns into an unintelligible yawn. Grantaire just groans into his shoulder. They've settled back into the bed, and Grantaire has turned into some sort of lead octopus. 

So Enjolras surrenders to sleep instead.

-

_sitting in the café during the day, surrounded by students, joly and combeferre and courfeyrac and marius and bossuet, brilliant minds and beautiful souls fighting for an unobtainable objective, bright-eyed with optimism and hope, and its disgusting and overwhelming, but there is enjolras, in all his grandeur, looking at grantaire with understanding eyes, and then he leans toward the drunkard and kisses him full on the mouth, gently, in front of everyone, but nobody notices, nobody cares, and enjolras continues kissing him softly while grantaire feels like he's going to drown in it all-_

“Mmph.”

Grantaire jerks his head up into the blinding light stabbing though his eyelids. His head is pounding and he can feel where his unclean hair is sticking to his forehead, _disgusting_ , and he thinks he might be slightly ill. Enjolras is nowhere to be found, so he flounders out of bed and nearly hits the floor like a bag of sand.

Great way to kick off the day.

Some hours later, after Grantaire spills the contents of his stomach all over the side of a building and refuses the advances of a very eager whore, the drunkard finds himself in the Café Musain hoping to get wasted and relive the entire ordeal.

When he gets to the area where the students congregate, everyone is clapping and hollering at a beaming Enjolras. He's got a look in his eye like he could take down an entire army on his own. Grantaire scoffs and searches around for some wine.

Enjolras catches his gaze and for once doesn't look like he's torn between wanting to throw something at Grantaire and wanting to fuck Grantaire against a wall. He looks almost unsure, but turns his head to speak with Combeferre before Grantaire can read into it.

Turns out Lamarque passed away recently (Grantaire was apparently present when the news arrived?  He remembers no such thing, but there might have been absinthe invovled which would explain a thing or two).  His death discouraged his friends about as much as water discourages an oil fire. Feuilly throws himself down in a chair next to Grantaire and tells him about the plans to erect a barricade.

Grantaire rolls his eyes and says, “You fools are going to get yourselves shot.”

“But you'll be right there next to us,” Feuilly shoots back. “Wont you?”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows and says, “I will need to imbibe _much_ more wine before thinking about killing myself in your inane crusade,” then downs the rest of his bottle.

He gets a clap on the back and someone shouts _more wine for the gentleman!_

The light outside begins to dim as evening crawls up the horizon. Grantaire doesn't feel nearly drunk enough when a hand gently grasps his elbow and a a voice whispers low in his ear.

“I'm going to retire for the evening. Care to join me?”

So Enjolras is in a rapturous mood today. Grantaire has to keep his head from lolling back against the warm shoulder behind him. He assumes that might look too obvious, so he keeps his head level and turns a bit in his chair to look at Enjolras. Their faces are inappropriately close and Grantaire regrets their public whereabouts.

Since Enjolras's big stupid confession about being promised to France and freedom and everything that _isn't_ Grantaire, it's become easier to kiss him. Which, as far as Grantaire is concerned, was a ludicrous reason to not kiss someone (really, how many prostitutes and foolish girls in his youth would have been in quite a mess if simple kisses made you fall in love with Grantaire?)

Enjolras seems to grow impatient with Grantaire's sluggish mind and lightly slaps his face.

“Well?” he asks.

Grantaire blinks rapidly then looks at the table, and then back to Enjolras. He grabs Feuilly's almost-full bottle of wine when the man isn't paying attention and then rises to his feet to leave with Enjolras.

Enjolras just rolls his eyes and pulls Grantaire along with him, an arm slung across his shoulders. Grantaire falls heavily against the strong body and laughs when he hears Feuilly shouting behind him.

He wraps an arm around Enjolras's waist as they stumble into the street and quietly speaks in Enjolras's ear.

“I'm not _that_ drunk, you know.”

Enjolras hides a grin and says, “I know.”

-

Grantaire lets out a long groan and stretches out on the bed like a lanky cat. The taste of Enjolras's release lingers in the back of his mouth. It's not entirely pleasant, but Grantaire revels in the fact that he was allowed to take Enjolras in his mouth.

“Do you think anyone is suspicious of us?” he asks. “We weren't exactly subtle when we left.”

Enjolras sighs in a content sort of way next to Grantaire's shoulder. His eyes are closed and his lashes cast long elegant shadows across his cheeks. It makes him look celestial and innocent, even with his tousled hair and swollen lips.

Grantaire could kiss no lips but those for the rest of his life and die content.

Enjolras tells him not to worry about it and yawns.

“So tired already?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras settles his head on Grantaire's chest and mumbles, “Much work to do tomorrow.”

“Ah. The barricade.”

Enjolras nods his head with a lethargy Grantaire would expect from himself when drunk.

“We will truly be revolutionaries now.”

Grantaire doesn't have anything to say to that. He runs his fingers through Enjolras's hair and stares at the ceiling like it should be advising him on how to handle this situation. Taking to the streets with fellow students to rally was one thing, but to create a defensive obstruction may surely be seen as a declaration of war.

Things were getting far more serious than Grantaire cared for. But in that moment, with Enjolras drifting to sleep in his arms, he knew he would follow that foolish man to his death.

-

Grantaire wakes before the sun rises, only to find Enjolras sitting up next to him. Unashamed of his nudity, he stares out the window with ferocity in his gaze.

Grantaire reaches up and palms his cheek, turning his face to look at him. Enjolras grabs his forearm and peppers his wrist with small kisses.

“Be careful,” Grantaire mumbles, “You look like someone who is falling in love.”

Enjolras doesn't even make an attempt to look vexed. “I am excited,” he says sleepily, and smiles down at Grantaire.

Grantaire just grunts and crawls between Enjolras's legs, burying his face in the other man's stomach.

“For a fool's campaign,” he says into Enjolras's skin.

Enjolras rubs the back of Grantaire's neck, circling his thumbs over the knobs of his spine. He stays quiet for a long moment, before asking, “Why have you stayed by our side?”

Grantaire doesn't say anything, so Enjolras continues

“You show nothing but contempt for our cause, yet you spend hours in our presence. You've even attempted to assist us before.”

“And I will attempt to assist you today, at building the barricade-”

"We will have no need for a lousy drunk," Enjolras deadpans.  Grantaire someimes forgets that being accepted into the man's bed doesn't exactly make them best friends.

"It doesn't matter," he says, "I wil be there regardless."

“I fear I will never understand what goes on in your head, Grantaire,” Enjolras sighs.

Grantaire smiles and says, “You do not want to see the inside of my head, I fear your delicate sensibilities would be shocked and appalled at what you would find.”

Enjolras swats at hit head as Grantaire laughs into his skin. He lets his hand rest gingerly atop Grantaire's head.

“We face real danger, Grantaire,” he says, suddenly serious, “And I do not know why you would harm yourself fighting for something you do not believe in.”

Enjolras tugs on Grantaire's hair, forcing him to look up. “I do not joke. Blood may be spilled. Your blood as well as mine.”

“I am fully aware.” Grantaire feels entirely too sober for this conversation. France already stole Enjolras's heart, Grantaire just hoped she would not take his life as well.

“I just,” Enjolras says, “I just do not understand why you would put yourself in danger for something you hold such little love for.”

Grantaire rises up onto his hands so their foreheads brush. “If I were to die for you, next to you... My death would be worth far more than my life.”

Enjolras is quiet for a moment. He brushes his knuckles down Grantaire's cheek, rough with stubble. When he speaks, his voice is small.

“You would give your life for my cause, even though you do not believe in it?”

“I would,” Grantaire answers.

Enjolras releases a trembling breath and tells him, “Then you are a greater fool than I.”

Grantaire can't argue with that. He presses forward and places kisses on Enjolras's chin, his nose, and then languidly on his mouth, sucking on his lower lip and twisting their tongues together. His hand creeps lower and lower until he grasps Enjolras's half-hard cock. He strokes softly, teasingly.

Enjolras pushes him back with a gasp and holds onto his face with both hands. His eyes are wide with a glint of excitement and his pupils are dilated in the low light. His chest is heaving and he looks prepared to properly ravish his partner. Grantaire rejoices in the fact that the man finally has the common courtesy to look absolutely debauched.

Enjolras leans forward and kisses the mouth before him. He says, “I do not love you,” and proceeds to thoroughly make love to Grantaire.

-

Everyone is drinking liberal amounts of wine and reminiscing. Each defender in the café feels death upon them like a warm blanket, yet the atmosphere is anything but disquiet. Men are slapping each other on the backs and wrapping their arms around friends in brotherly embrace. Some men are with girls, tucked away in the corners, whispering words of love in their ears. Others speak of girls from days past.

Grantaire notes Enjolras's silence. He looks to the man and sees a calm smile resting on his face as he listens to the students with fondness in his eyes. Grantaire gives him a sour grin when Enjolras catches him watching. He settles down tight beside the man and doesn't speak for a moment. Grantaire wants to bottle the feeling of Enjolras pressed warm against his side, so that he may have it forever.

He's become uncharacteristically somber. When he speaks, he does not meet Enjolras's eye.

“You could die tomorrow,” his voice is barely above a whisper, “And your cause could be lost.”

Enjolras says nothing. Grantaire says much.

“You might fall at the barricade and take all of your foolish ideals to the afterlife with you. You might die and be forgotten, just like that. The people of France will look to your body and see just another rebellious student. You might die for no reason, and leave everybody, everybody and me, stuck here without you. Without any direction or any reason to keep going-”

Enjolras stops him with two fingers on his chin. He gently turns Grantaire's head until they are looking at each other.  Neither of them speak, they simply study each other in silence. Eventually Grantaire can't stand to see Enjolras any longer; the beautiful features arouse nothing but thoughts of death and failure. He pulls away from the man and walks away, content to wallow in his pessimism. 

He gets about five steps before Enjolras grabs him by the forearm and pulls him close. Grantaire wants to spit in his face and stomp away, but he finds he is powerless to resist. Enjolras still has a small smile on his face, like he is content with his situation, like he is content to fight and die. 

“You would gladly die for France's people,” Grantaire says, “A rebel turned martyr.” He intends for it to sound mocking. It comes out more like a plea. _Please don't leave me alone._

He brings a hand up to cup Enjolras's neck and squeezes just enough to know the man is still there and not already a ghost. But he is warm and solid, and he nods at Grantaire like that solitary head movement just solved all of their problems.

Grantaire deflates. He lets Enjolras wrap an arm around his shoulders and lead him away. If anyone in the Café Musain noticed them slip out, they didn't care. They understood.

-

It was Lamarque's death that started this whole mess. Now each of the students were stuck down. All of his friends except Marius and his girl had met their demise. That inspector was killed, too. Even little Gavroche was snatched away to the afterlife. Eponine died as well, still terribly in love with a wonderful, foolish boy.

Grantaire could relate.

His vision grows fuzzy as he lies on his side, bleeding to death. Bullet holes ventilate his body, yet he feels no pain. He only feels heat. His palm is warm with the memory of a man's hand, his heart is warm with the memory of a man's smile.

Grantaire turns his head a fraction and looks at Enjolras, who appears every bit the part of a martyr. Even in death, he looks holy and grand. The red of his blood mingles with the red of his vest and flag. He looks whole.

Grantaire is taken with a strange sensation when he looks at Enjolras's body. It's an alien feeling that resembles something like pain and ecstasy all at once. He is joyful and he is in despair. He notices how hot and wet his face has become. It takes him a moment to realize that he is crying.

Eyelids grow heavy with death. He keeps his gaze glued to Enjolras, even when he can hardly see through the blur of tears. He fights against the gentle hand pulling him to the afterlife so that he may drink in the sight of Enjolras for a moment longer. But he is insatiable and death is impatient. Grantaire's eyes fall shut.

And when they reopen, Enjolras is smiling down at him.


End file.
